


i'd start a riot

by kissmeinnewyork



Series: our choice [1]
Category: Bodyguard (TV)
Genre: Angst ?, Bodyguard, F/M, Fluff, Pillow Talk, Romance, These two will kill me, in fact they have
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2019-07-10 18:34:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmeinnewyork/pseuds/kissmeinnewyork
Summary: “You are the only person who has showed me any true compassion in years and I may appear like a woman who doesn’t need that, but I do. And I’ve come to realise that I shouldn’t be ashamed in that. It isn’t a weakness. It’s… being human, I suppose. I haven’t felt human in such a long time.” (david, julia and a moment we never saw. )





	i'd start a riot

**Author's Note:**

> wow i am SUCH trash. there will definitely be longer, more substantial pieces from me about these two in the future, hold onto ur hats. im just testing the waters. kudos appreciated xx

“What would happen to you if I died?”

Julia’s head is propped on her arm, sharp eyes unblinking. David doesn’t turn for a few moments, concentrating on the ceiling. When her question goes unanswered she reaches out, fingers skimming his bare chest, tiny clues that she’s impatient but for once, isn’t going to push. She’ll wait.

David breathes heavily. He clasps her hand in his own, the skin soft, nails perfectly kept. They’re worlds away from his own—his bare the marks of his lifestyle, his career. Scars that curl between knuckles like channels in a river, once a deep red now bulging white. “It depends on how you died.”

“I’m not talking about me slipping in the bath, David,” Julia tuts, “I mean—what if something happens. Like Pascoe House, but this time… what would happen to you?”

He considers this, because he’s not the kind to waste words. His sentences are crafted and well-considered, much like hers are, even in private. “Well…for a start, I’d probably lose my job. A bodyguard who gets their primary killed is probably not a very good bodyguard.”

Julia hums. “What if it isn’t your fault?”

“If something happens to you it’s always my fault. My job is to protect you. If you’re killed I haven’t done that.”

“Yes, but,” Julia continues to prod, “Sometimes things just happen that you cannot anticipate. What if, I don’t know, another gunman on top of another building shoots me when we’re crossing the street. How can that possibly be down to you?”

David turns so he’s facing her, mirroring her stance. Julia looks earnest for once, like there’s no motive behind everything she says. This isn’t some speech she’s spent hours poring over in the hope of eliciting a response. This isn’t politics. This is _this._ Whatever _this_ has become.

“Julia,” he says, and her name has a visible effect on her, mainly because he never uses it. He’s not supposed to. Outside these walls it’s always _ma’am,_ always formal, always professional. But inside—inside is something else, and using her name is only _right._ “If you were killed on my watch it would feel like my fault, regardless of the circumstances. It doesn’t matter about my job. _That’s_ what would happen to me.”

And, suddenly, it’s like she understands. Why he’s the way he is, why he falters, why sometimes he disappears in the middle of the night. How the scars burn deeper than just the flesh on his back, his arms. She kisses his shoulder blade and lets her hand linger there gently. A breath ripples through his chest.

“Just so you know,” she says softly, and it’s such a rare moment that David’s eyes flicker open, look straight into hers. Julia Montague has never been soft in her _life._ “If something does happen to me, I am personally detracting any fault you may lay on yourself. I am not being another body on your conscience.”

“ _Julia..._ ”

“No, David,” she assures forcefully, “You are the only person who has showed me any true compassion in years and I may appear like a woman who doesn’t need that, but I do. And I’ve come to realise that I shouldn’t be ashamed in that. It isn’t a weakness. It’s… being human, I suppose. I haven’t felt human in such a long time.”

It’s more a confession than either of them expect. The room quivers under the silence, like the aftermath of an earthquake. It only makes sense to tell her that he hasn’t felt human, _alive,_ either, ever since Vicky left but maybe even before that, because the army carved all that out of him. How he blamed her beliefs for how he lives in an empty flat, hears rapid fire artillery in the silence he now fears, how sometimes he can still taste the blood of his dead friend on his lips. How becoming entangled with her fights against every instinct he knows, every bit of training that has been ingrained him since fucking _eighteen,_ yet somehow… somehow she’s a mental block, makes his wiring stutter and restart. Because this shouldn’t have happened. But it has, and now he’s got fire in his veins and no longer feels numb every time he opens his goddamn eyes.

Except nothing about this makes sense, so he doesn’t. Instead, he leans across and kisses her. It’s 3:34am, the whole world seems quiet, and he is kissing the Home Secretary. His life wasn’t supposed to be this. And yet. _Yet._

“There’s a heart beating in you David, and there’s one in me, too. Maybe the rest of the world doesn’t see that. Maybe they never will,” she smiles, genuinely, not the one she plasters on for news interviews and covert leadership bids. It’s _beautiful._ “But I do. And I think that’s okay.”

David smiles back. It strikes him that it’s the first time he’s done that in a while, too. “Aye. That’s okay.”


End file.
